Epiphany, originally uploaded by Marita Cosma.

Ink’s black as a scar in the sunshine, sometimes. Ink’s like blood left behind and found just by chance. Ink’s bittersweet like tears, sometimes. It’s the pulse, I guess. It goes with the flow and it might loose its breath, sometimes. Yes, The River Knows . It’s painful when it does not come along like a lover would do, you know, like when it happens that happiness cannot be real if not shared, nore sadness would, if not so. No morirà la flor de la palabra, remember? I do. I’ll always do. Take nothing but memories, leave nothing but footprints, Dorothy. Somewhere over the Rainbow dreams are true, indeed. And you know we’ve got home when it hurts so much to remind us what it means to give up. And hope. And rest. For the longest nights ever, there where it’s possible to rest in power, rewind in peace, remind who we are and breath, again. Out of flags. Like a winner that’s so ‘cause he kept on dreaming. Ounadeekom, hero. I know what Mandela said. I know what Che Guevara said and I know he was not the singer of RATM as some kids thought at that time when his face was on their merchandise. I know what Zapata said. I know what The White Rose means. I know what you meant. I’ve survived. I remember the 28th of November, my friend, I didn’t realize it was that same night when I handwrote the first draft of Sunrise. I remember the 28th of December, mi hermano, anytime. It feels like words aren’t s-words, sometimes. I remember how I got to and came back from ‘Frisco that year, both the rides I got. It was Xmas time and The Doors where my OST even then on the new year eve, just like that, just by chance. I remember what being delightful means. I remember what happened a year later in Central Park, Jim. I remember so much, O Captain! My Captain!, and sometimes it hurts so badly. It’s not nostalghia, it’s not even sadness, no more, it’s deeper, like disillusion, you know… ‘Cause if the Utopia afterall truly is like the horizon to never reach, that horizon that keeps us walking toward it, today it feels like I’ve been marching in Oh when the Saints go marchin’ in with no crown or belief. And you know, it does hurt, cuz more than love, more than care, more than hope, it’s like walking toward truth there were truth is nothing but a candle in a darkness so deep that its light is frightened by the strongest winds. I keep my hands around the flame tonight. I’ve been raising my voice again, I know you’ve heard it. It’s my defence. Can you see my armour? I do. It looks like it was my skin. Can you see the scars? They are many, like dead stars and far constellations. Children show scars like medals. Lovers use them as secrets to reveal. A scar is what happens when the word is made flesh. I’ll be in it, where you are as well, my soul. With you, in spirit, forever. There’s no peace with no justice, we know it. There won’t be justice if not told though. Or maybe there will be it even though. I don’t know, at least not yet… In the meanwhile, much love.

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